The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (5 page)

This was thoroughly confusing to Geoffrey, who stood towering over his father. In fact, he actively climbed onto his chest and said, “Because?”

“Yes. Because. See, I can give one-word answers, too!” He grabbed his son to lift him up. “Now stop vexing your father so early in the morning!” He added, as he set Geoffrey down, “And don't ask if you can do it any other time of day. See, I knew you were going to say that. Your father is very wise.”

Geoffrey did sit down on the bed, at least temporarily. “Are you smarter than me?” he asked his father.

Darcy sighed. Geoffrey was a rather precocious two-year-old, and while the family marveled at his early speaking ability, Darcy found this to be more trouble than it was worth at the moment. “I hope not. Perhaps you will not make all of the stupid mistakes I've made in my life. None of which you are old enough to hear about, so don't ask.”

“Are you smarter than Mother?”

“No,” Darcy said. “Definitely, definitely not. I think my whole life will consist of her outwitting me.”

“Are you smarter than Uncle Bingley?”

“Are you going to go down the list of everyone you know and ask how I compare myself to them?”

“Yes.”

“Then do you want to sit inside all day and practice your reading instead of going outside and playing with Georgiana?”

His son was horrified. “No!”

“Then I suggest you cease this line of conversation and let me sleep!”

Geoffrey hopped off the bed and scurried out of the room with exceptional speed, even for him. Darcy let out a contented sigh and stared at Elizabeth's empty pillow. “It's from your side of the family, you know,” he said, and turned back on his other side.

But he did not, in fact, go back to sleep. Before long the rooster crowed, and Darcy slowly drifted in and out until his regular time for waking. Since his marriage, the servants no longer came in and opened the curtains for him, especially when he slept in his wife's room, so he had to do it himself and ring the bell for his manservant.

Pemberley was quiet—uncomfortably quiet. It was still quite early, and there was no sign of his only two guests or his son, although that was to be expected. Darcy took his regular breakfast and was lost in the morning paper when Nurse came in screaming. “Oh God! I promise… I promise… I'll get it off!”

“What?” he said, thoroughly confused, and still in the middle of his food.

“Mr. Bingley—he's not awake. I'll get it all off before he wakes, I promise!”

Darcy swallowed and said calmly, “
What
off?”

She could not explain; she was too flummoxed. Instead, she insisted that he follow her quickly and quietly to the nursery, so as to not wake Mr. Bingley. And there he found little Georgiana Bingley, giggling happily.

In a tub full of ink.

“I—I don't know how it happened, Mr. Darcy, I swear!”

Darcy already had a fair idea of what had occurred and was busy mentally debating how to maneuver the situation so that he was in full view of Bingley's face when he saw his daughter.

By morning, the three Bennet sisters—former and current— had come to one conclusion. The discretion of the Fitzwilliams, who had hosted them, could be trusted. They deserved an explanation for all of the disruption, and they received one. However, the sisters did not return to their carriage until they had received the Fitzwilliams' solemn promise that not a word of this would be uttered to anyone. Obviously, time was of the essence. The only question was if Mary should ride in her “condition,” but they decided that she had no other option. For the moment, they would go to Pemberley and decide on a course of action from there.

Mary said almost nothing. She had had the ground pulled out from under her, having always stood on a high moral ground. Mary's chances for a good marriage—or a marriage at all—were utterly ruined. Kitty's chances could be salvaged, but not until the scandal blew over. After all, Longbourn had suffered one scandal and emerged with two extremely advantageous marriages. But surely now Mary would have to be satisfied with being a lonely mother, provided something drastic wasn't done.

“You don't think—with all due respect—that Mr. Darcy will say anything about this, do you?” Jane whispered when Mary was out of earshot.

Elizabeth sighed. True, her husband was a severely proper man, averse to any scandal. However, he was also intolerably good at covering them up. “If he does, I will make it known that I am
severely
disappointed in him, and that will be enough to quiet him about this entire affair.”

But her husband was not disapproving. Not at first, when
they climbed out of the carriage at the grand doorstep of Pemberley. After all, Darcy and Bingley did not know the story, and Mary was not showing. But the two men, holding their children, also had the most adorably hapless look on their faces that Elizabeth had no doubt was well-practiced.

“So there is a very good explanation—”

“—a perfectly,
perfectly
good explanation—” Bingley broke in.

“—as to why our children are blue.”

For indeed they were.

Geoffrey Darcy and Georgiana Bingley were properly dressed to greet their parents, looking scrubbed and proper, except for the fact that their skin and hair were soundly a deep shade of blue. They looked like members of some unknown species, and they offered no explanation as they broke free and ran to their mothers. After Elizabeth and Jane were done laughing, they were able to greet their children properly. It felt so good to be happy at something ridiculous, after the torturous ride of worries, that Elizabeth had to recover some before she could properly approach her husband with a look that demanded everything.

“Well, since it happened first to—”

“Darcy,
your
son started it. Don't you dare try to implicate me in this!” Bingley demanded.

“Charles,” Jane said in her very patient, loving, and deadly voice. “Where were you when… this occurred?”

“Sleeping.”

“Only the first time,” Darcy corrected. “Not the second.”

“How was I to know there would be a second time?”

“Will someone
please
provide your promised explanation?” Elizabeth said. “Oh, and my sister, of course,” she said, nodding to Mary.

Their husbands bowed. “Miss Bennet.”

“Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley,” she said shyly.

“How was your—”

“Don't try to distract us,” Elizabeth cut in. “I will go as far as to say I am, for the moment, more concerned with my son than my sister.”

“We did try to scrub them,” Bingley offered. “I mean,
really
tried.”

“It hurt,” said Geoffrey, pointing to his father. “He hurt me. And made me sit in the corner.”

Darcy shrugged unapologetically at his son's comments.

The whole story came out after much questioning and demanding of specifics. Geoffrey had crept into Georgiana's early morning bath and dumped a bottle of ink in the water. Georgie had been most amused at the concept and had gotten it all over the top half of her body before Nurse returned. All the while, Bingley enjoyed the sound sleep that could only be enjoyed by the father of two toddlers who had yet to sleep fully through the night and were now three miles away. If that hadn't been enough, Georgie had gotten her revenge the next day by adding ink to the bucket of water to be dumped on Geoffrey in his tub. After so much panicked scrubbing by their fathers that the children cried that their skin was raw and pained, Mrs. Reynolds intervened and said the ink would fade— in time.

“A few weeks,” Darcy said.

“Oh goodness,” was all Jane could say.

Bingley and Darcy exchanged confused glances. Why their wives found the predicament more amusing and delightful than horrifying was beyond them. They were both taken aside and
told the more pressing situation, in private, so Mary did not have to endure the disclosure. After all, she had to be handled most carefully now as an expectant woman.

Darcy listened to the tale in his study, as Mary sat with the children outside. He said nothing during the whole recitation, though his face did go through a series of expressions, none of them particularly unexpected.

“So,” Elizabeth said at last, announcing she was finished.

“And—he's in Italy, this Mr.—”

“His proper name is Mr. Mastai-Ferretti, I believe. Or, I suppose, Signore Mastai.”

“He's younger than she?”

“Yes.”

Clearly pondering, Darcy asked, “From where in Italy does he hail?”

“Sin—Senigallia. But Mary believes him to be elsewhere in Italy now, finishing his education.” Elizabeth made her own logical conclusions. “He is surely unreachable.”

“Mr. Bennet can write, if he wishes, but our Mr. Mastai could simply choose not to respond. Considering his actions forthwith, I would not see that as beyond the range of possibility.”

“Then there is nothing to be done.”

Darcy said nothing.

“Darcy, she's my sister.”

“That I know,” he said, not uncaringly. “But there is an order for things. Her father cannot be unknowing in this.”

“Then you
do
have a plan.”

“There is only one I can think of, Lizzy. Surely you have thought of it yourself.”

“It is out of the realm of possibility, surely.”

“As far as family is concerned, nothing is out of the realm of possibility.” But that was all he was willing to say for the moment.

The five of them now had the first obstacle in front of them: they could go to Longbourn and give Mr. Bennet the news in his own home, as he deserved when his daughter disgraced his family. Or they could keep Mary in Derbyshire and invite her father there in an effort to avoid the scandal for some time, as might be possible if she stayed there instead of returning to Hertfordshire. Bingley immediately offered up Chatton as a permanent residence for Mary, and Darcy, who was his usual quiet self, did not challenge him, though he did mention in passing that she could stay at Pemberley if she wished. Mary declared no preference, so Chatton it was to be.

“Perhaps we should call on Maddox,” Bingley said to Darcy in confidence. “To… I don't know, assess things.”

“He is not the only doctor in England, Bingley! And he would undoubtedly come with Caroline.”

“So what if he does? We cannot avoid the extended family knowing the whole of it for long, and as she is now related to Miss Bennet, Caroline has almost as much interest in avoiding the scandal as we do. So no harm done there.”

Bingley had a point. Besides, if Mary was to see a doctor, it had best be the one least likely to gossip. “Fine. But first, Mr. Bennet.”

“Oh dear God, never did I fear our father-in-law so.”

“He has no reason to be cross with us. That is, provided we hide the children from him, and even if we don't, he'll hardly be
concerned. Might even find it amusing. In fact, it might put him in good humor for the very bad news.”

“You have a point.”

“So that is the plan, then. He will see his grandchildren. And
then
Miss Bennet.”

“Poor Mary.”

Darcy gave him a look.

“How can you be so hard on her, even in private? It's not
her
fault.”

“Unlike your own Calvinist leanings, I
do
believe in free will, Bingley.”

“That is not to say she wasn't taken advantage of. Even if she thinks she wasn't, with… cultural differences and such. You've been to the Continent—you know they all think we're stuck-up Englishmen with no romantic nature whatsoever, and for good reason.”

“I never said I had no romantic nature.”

“But people have thought it of you. I've
said
it to you, in so many words.”

“On that, I will relent,” Darcy grumbled.

“What are we to do, Darcy?”

“Simple,” he said, as if it was. “I am to save yet another Bennet sister.”

“How do you propose to—
oh
. Well, I'm willing to help. She's my sister as well.”

“You have two small toddlers and a daughter who hasn't said her first words.”

Bingley frowned. “Point taken. I do feel useless then.”

“You will be sheltering a young woman with child from considerable scandal. That is hardly the definition of
'useless.' In fact, I believe you will be quite busy for the next seven months.”